


Red Wine and Rose Petals

by sciencebutch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a bastard, Bathtubs, Fluff, M/M, Softness......., and you gotta write about it! it can't be helped!, crowley is whipped for his angel, not really nsfw but im scared, sometimes you love the inherent hedonism that comes with taking a bath, there would be footnotes but idk how LOL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 14:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19703191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencebutch/pseuds/sciencebutch
Summary: Aziraphale liked to make taking a bath a whole thing. Something that must be prepared half an hour beforehand, with salts and sugar scrubs and soaps, candles and music. A glass of wine and sometimes, a small snack.Recently, Aziraphale had been adding Crowley to the mix.





	Red Wine and Rose Petals

**Author's Note:**

> Listne....Baths Are Good
> 
> also this isnt beta read and i wrote this half asleep before going to bed for the past few nights

It’s a very good thing to be a supernatural entity—mostly of the occult nature, the ethereal have quite a bit of trouble not standing on the surface of the water when they step in—while taking a bath. Mostly because the water always remains at the perfect temperature, no matter how long one stays in. The sort of temperature that’s like stepping onto sun-kissed stones in bare feet in the morning. The sort of heat that made you tingle all over.

Aziraphale liked to make taking a bath a whole thing. Something that must be prepared half an hour beforehand, with salts and sugar scrubs and soaps and all matters of products fizzing away in the water, bubbles swelling and forming mountain peaks and plateaus. He would light candles—lavender, jasmine, peppermint—and pour a lovely glass of red wine. Sometimes he would listen to music; Gilbert and Sullivan operas or classical compositions crackling away on a gramophone. Sometimes he preferred the silence that the boisterous streets of Soho rarely gave him.

Recently, Aziraphale had been adding Crowley to the mix, after using a miracle to make the porcelain tub larger, so it was able to fit both Aziraphale’s portly frame and Crowley’s lanky one comfortably.

Though at first, Crowley had claimed that he didn’t like baths, because snakes would rather not be submerged in water, what with swimming being quite difficult without any limbs to do it with, _ thank you very much and goodbye _ , to which Aziraphale responded with a “some snakes swim, dear”, and Crowley retorted a “yeah well, not all of them. Not this one.” 

Aziraphale thinks that Crowley had just complained on his principle of complaining, because most of his complaints evaporated once he saw the state of the bathtub, which was a grand, opulent, decadent affair. The sort of gluttonous thing you’d expect his lot to put on. There were even smatterings of rose petals floating on the water. Naturally, he’d have to endorse it, because his principle of sinning outweighed his principle of complaining. Just barely, though. He’d have to pretend to be reluctant at first. 

“Seems a bit much, don’t you think?” Crowley had asked, somewhat in awe of the whole thing. He let none of it come through in the tone of his voice.

“Not in the slightest,” Aziraphale defended haughtily. He was a hedonist, but he’d be damned if he would ever admit it. Crowley tried to convince him to concede by saying that you get used to damnation after a while. Still, Aziraphale’s lips remained stubbornly closed on the matter. 

“And how is this not the most gluttonous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, angel?” 

Aziraphale huffed. “Oh, you and those Demons in Hell can probably cook up something far worse than a simple bath, dear. Besides, I put all my love for you in it, which makes it hardly sinful at all,” he reasoned, giving himself a self-satisfied nod.

Crowley had wanted to say that the Demons in Hell could hardly cook to save their lives, or that this bath was hardly simple, but after Aziraphale’s declaration of love, he found he couldn’t summon his wit all that well—or at all. So, he accepted his folly with a croaked, simple, “You’re right.”

The angel smirked. He knew how to win an argument with him, the bastard.

Aziraphale then removed his waistcoat, vest, shirt, and pants with an air of politeness that the angel somehow always managed to inject into everything he does. He carefully folded the clothing and set it meaningfully on the granite counter. At that moment he hadn’t made an effort, so his crotch was bare of most anything interesting, but all of Crowley’s complaints had disappeared for good. 

The angel stepped into the bath, having to force his weight under lest he sat atop it instead. He moaned contentedly at the perfect warmth, much in the way he would after biting into a particularly wonderful bit of pavlova or a plate of lobster ravioli. Dishes with almost the same level of extravagance and gluttony involved as this bath. 

That was one of the things Crowley particularly adored about Aziraphale, one of the things that drove him crazy with affection: the angel’s unashamed love for the material; for the creations of humanity, rather than the creations of God. He loved God’s creations as much as the next angel, sure, but his love for food, for old books, for tartan and the daily crossword and Regency silver snuffboxes ...that was something special. Something inherent to  _ Aziraphale _ .

Crowley stared after him, serpentine eyes wide and unblinking, glazed over.

He tended to have a difficult time keeping his hands—or body, he had a habit of wrapping himself round Aziraphale at any chance he got—away from the angel, and he had undressed quickly (forgetting entirely that he could just simply will the clothes away), following clumsily in Aziraphale’s stead, stumbling over his too-tight pants that held fast to his ankles. 

He did not have the same trouble with floating as Angels had, because he wasn’t Holy, or whatever the explanation for that was. Though—he figured that being full of holes would’ve made it more difficult for someone to float in the first place. Crowley sank into the water, which felt oddly soft, in the way water does when it’s saturated with soaps and bath bombs and things. 

Aziraphale pulls him flush against him, his plump hands tightly around his knobby hips, and then leans back a bit with a contented sigh, so similar to the sound he makes when he’s full of food and drink and entirely pleased. 

“Comfy, dear?” Aziraphale asks, eyes lolling closed.

Crowley straddles the angel, leaning to place his chin on Aziraphale’s plush chest. Bubbles surround his white curls like iridescent clouds, resembling those simulacrums of Heaven that are so popular. 

“Yesss,” Crowley breathed. He’d forgotten himself already, it seemed.

Aziraphale smiled sleepily. Crowley leaned up and kissed his chin. Aziraphale bent his head down to meet his lips. 

The air had the faintest scent of roses. Crowley was too busy using his tongue for other things to really notice.

**Author's Note:**

> crowley is a snake and therefore smells with his tongue and that's that on that
> 
> talk to me about the jacobson's organ on [tumblr](https://azirafelesbian.tumblr.com/) or just follow me :3c


End file.
